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kastle + 2

“I thought you said I was dead to you.”

It was amazing, Karen thought, that he managed to talk around all the blood in his mouth. She pressed her lips together. She could tell him she’d been halfway to her car without realizing it, the moment she’d heard that police were reporting a successful hit on the Punisher. She could tell him she didn’t stop think about what she was doing, not after she’d called Matt and he’d confirmed he’d seen Frank go down. She could tell him that when she finally found him, curled up and bleeding in an alleyway only a few blocks from her apartment, she had the sinking sensation she’d have chewed off her own arm to get to him.

“I’m a liar,” she said instead.

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Kastle 18

Frank knew all about bad habits. In high school he was a little too eager to start a fight. It followed him into the army, where he took a little too much enjoyment out of the feel of blood beneath his nails, bones cracking underneath his knuckles. He’d never courted bar fights, but had never complained when they came his way. Violence had always been his dirty mistress.

Now that bad habit had morphed into a second heart beating against his ribs. In the absence of his family, he’d fed it and nurtured it until it had almost developed it’s own sentience. A throbbing at his temple, where a bullet had entered once upon a time. Punish. Punish. Punish.

Now he had sniper nests all over the damn city, with enough guns and ammunition to outfit a recon unit–thank you, Colonel Schoonover, may you rot in hell you son of a bitch.

If one of those news just happened to across the way from The Bulletin? Well, the thing about bad habits was they were like loose change. You always had a handful of them.

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